


Mummy

by A_Shade_of_Her



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Betrayal, Blind Character, Blindness, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Love, Partner Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Shade_of_Her/pseuds/A_Shade_of_Her
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{After the Fall} John leaves Sherlock and Mycroft to an argument and discovers they've got a visitor. But 221B never gets visitors . . . no visitors by strangers, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Visitor

_“I’ve had a very bad time, Nick,_

_and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”_

_Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more,_

_and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her_

_daughter._

_“I suppose she talks, and--eats, and everything.”_

_“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what_

_I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”_

_“Very much.”_

_“It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about--things. Well, she was less_

_than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether_

_with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it_

_was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head_

_away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it's a girl. And I hope_

_she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world,_

_a beautiful little fool’.”_

_The Great Gatsby_

 

DRAFT: THE BLIND VIOLINIST

November 21, 2012

 

“Now, really, Sherlock, you’re throwing an absolute tantrum.”

“I have no interest in chasing down a bank robber, Mycroft. Not worth my time.”

You have no idea how many times I’ve heard conversations just like this.

Too many.

They’re amusing until they involve me – then they’re a headache.

It was during one such discussion that I got peckish and left. I was only out about half an hour, and when I got back, there was a woman in sweats and a hoodie leaning against our door.

I asked if I could help her.

I remember the way she looked at me. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot and I realized she wasn’t just leaning on the door; she was holding on for dear life.

“Are you John?” Her voice was deep and breathy. Weak.

“Yes.”

“Is he home?”

I could only assume she meant Sherlock.

“Yes.”

She reached for the knob and almost fell over. I caught her – meaning I stepped behind her – and opened the door. Mrs. Hudson had bought a new sofa for the tenants downstairs and I felt bad that it was dusty, but she didn’t complain, or even seem to notice. The way she carried herself just didn’t match what she was wearing. Her hood was up, and I’d have thought she was a scam artist, but something about her face was familiar, like I’d met her before.

“Wait here, I’ll have him come down.” She laughed.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

That was new – someone who didn’t seem put off with, well, _Sherlock._

I ran up to our flat where he and Mycroft were still having it out.

“Why must you always be so petulant?” Sherlock grinned and shredded off a particularly sour arpeggio.

“Um, excuse me--”

“You do realize, of course, that you’re being very childish.”

“And what exactly will you do it I refuse to help you?”

I could almost hear Mycroft narrow his eyes.

“I can _make_ you help.”

“Ah, just like you _made_ me clean your messes. Naturally, I’m the only one being childish.” He turned from the window. “John?”

“You have a visitor. Downstairs.” He huffed and stared outside.

“I don’t get visitors.”

“Well, you’ve got one today. She’s downstairs.”

“Is she incapable of using the _stairs_?”

“Sherlock. Really. Can’t you just go down? She needs your help.” He turned back to me and lowered his violin.

“With _what? What’s the case?_ ”

I really didn’t know what to say. I started to fumble for words when both he and Mycroft ran past me out the door and towards the stairs.

Mycroft even left his cane.

I turned to look and they were helping the woman up the stairs. Both of them. Without ribbing each other.

I’d heard of miracles, but this was different.

I gestured to my chair and turned it towards the fire. Mycroft went into the kitchen and I could hear him making tea. Mycroft. The face I had started putting to the British government was making tea. And Sherlock was silent save for the occasional encouragement to the woman.

Maybe this wasn’t a miracle. Maybe this was some twisted dream. Maybe Sherlock had drugged me with something. Again.

But there was something about the two of them, something brought out by the fuss they were making over this woman, something in their faces that was just . . . _sad._

“Really, Sherlock, there’s no need to make an old woman of me.” I looked at her and the firelight showed me lines of love and worry and pain I’d missed before. Mycroft brought out a tray of tea and she smiled. “Mycroft. I didn’t think you’d be here.”

He smiled – _Mycroft_ actually _smiled_ – and he handed her a mug.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I stood a little straighter. Anyone Mycroft called “ma’am” by choice must be terrifyingly powerful.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock’s voice was shockingly gentle.

“I have nowhere else to go.” Her voice was flat and controlled.

“But _you_ were awarded the estate,” Mycroft said. She looked up at him and I could see then that there were tears in her eyes and that she was shivering.

“It is mine only if he is not seeking reconciliation.” She sipped her tea. “There’s always fine print, Mycroft.”

I draped a blanket over her shoulders and she pulled it tighter around herself.

“What has he done?” Sherlock’s voice was all but a growl. She downed the entire mug in one shot.

“I need your help.”

“I can have MI5 with you at all times.”

Okay – powerful _and_ important.

“I appreciate that, but I don’t think that would stop him.” Mycroft took her mug and Sherlock refilled it. “It never has before.”

“What if . . .” I’d never heard Sherlock hesitate before, but then I’d never seen Mycroft defer to anyone. “What if we were to stage your death?” Her gaze was stone.

“Let’s not go through that again.”

“Are _you_ okay?” I felt like an idiot asking that, but I had to. She looked up – but not at – me, as if she couldn’t. A tear fell and she stiffened.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at me.

“Um, sure, yeah. For . . . what?”

“For being his friend.”

Her eyes closed and she sipped her tea robotically. I glanced at Sherlock and Mycroft gently took her mug. Sherlock lifted her from the chair and carried her back to his room. I followed – as a doctor, I felt I had to check on her. As he laid her down, her hood fell back and I just stared.

She was bald.

Or rather, mostly bald. Either she was very ill, or she had tried to shave her own head. Or both.

Sherlock pulled a quilt up to her chin, turned, and walked out. He kept clenching his fists. Not good. Last time he was visibly angry, an American CIA agent fell out of our window nearly a dozen times. But then he hadn’t been angry enough that his body had betrayed him.

I followed, shutting the door behind me. Mycroft was speaking softly on his mobile, and Sherlock sat down, staring at the violin in his hands.

“Has she got cancer?” I asked just as Mycroft hung up.

“No,” Mycroft answered. “At least, not the kind you might imagine.” He turned to Sherlock. “Do try your best to _not_ shoot the wall. MI5 won’t take kindly to your antics.”

I sat down across from Sherlock as Mycroft descended the stairs and waited. He stared past me for hours. I had nearly dozed off when he slammed his palm down on the armrest of the chair, cursing loudly.

“Well then, tell us how you really feel.” He stared at me and a smile curved his mouth for a moment before it vanished.

“She has to stay with us, John.” I nodded. He shifted and stared into the fire.

“So who is she?”

“Mm?” He stared at me in genuine surprise.

“That woman. Is she a sister, or a cousin, maybe?”

“No.” He turned back to the fire. “No, John. That’s our mother.”


	2. A Home

“Your _mother?_ ”

“Yes.”

I just stared at him, and then it hit me.

They’d mentioned her before, just after I’d shot the cabbie when we’d first become flatmates.

“Your . . . _mummy. . . ?_ ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, John, did you not think I had one?”

“Well . . . no.”

“What, you thought I just _happened?_ ”

“. . . Yes.”

Sherlock stared away, into the fire.

“In a way.” The silence was interrupted by his mobile. He flipped it out and read the text. “It would seem we are surrounded by Mycroft’s army.”

“Why is that even necessary?”

“Do you want the long, thorough answer, or the short one?”

“The long one; she was exhausted, so she’ll be sleeping for a while.”

He nodded, seemed to remember something, and pointed at me, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“ _None of this goes on your blog._ ”

“Of course not.”

He sat back, satisfied.

“My mother’s name is Ariadne Holmes, née Lewis.”

“Not . . . not the violinist?”

“Yes, the violinist.”

“One of my bunkmates in Afghanistan played her recordings incess— um, all the time.”

“She was brilliant. Still is. She met my father after a concert when she was only 19. They say he swept her off her feet.”

“‘They’?”

“Newspapers.”

“Oh.”

“They were married before the year was out. Some three years later, Mycroft was born.” He took his violin and began to rosin the bow. “The rest I got from my brother and the housekeeper.

“Our father became jealous of our mother’s fame and popularity, and so he persuaded her to end her career. She stayed at home with Mycroft, and by all accounts was happy until our father became bored with her. That’s when the mistresses moved in and he started hitting her.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “She moved into an adjacent bedroom, but stayed for Mycroft’s sake. She always wanted her children to be raised with both parents.”

“And she never moved out?”

“Yes . . . she did eventually.”

“What finally made her leave?”

Sherlock stood and went to the window.

“My father raped her while he was drunk. She was gone by morning.”

“Oh my God . . . stealing two boys away after an ordeal like that must have been what broke her.”

He sighed, still staring outside.

“She didn’t steal away two boys.”

The crackling fire seemed deafening as I understood.

“You don’t mea-”

“She moved out in November. I was born the following July.”

_“Brother mine.”_

“Did Mycroft know?”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Of course he bloody knew. He was ten years old.” He turned to face me. “Though he really never let on.”

“Well, how’d you find out, then?”

He rolled his eyes.

“First you think I never had a mother and now you think I never had maths?”

“Oh.”

“We lived in a townhouse in central London and attended a private school until we left for uni.”

“And she worked as. . . ?”

“Oh no.” Sherlock grinned. “She did not. Our loving father unknowingly paid the rent for nearly twenty years.”

“How?”

“She rented it under the name of one of this former mistresses. There were no questions asked, apparently.”

“That’s illegal.”

“That’s revenge.”

“ There was an estate mentioned, though. Not the townhouse, I assume?”

“No. After the legal separation, she was awarded the family estate, but she hasn’t stuck his name from the deeds yet, though she has every right to.”

“Why not?”

“She . . . loves my father, though Mycroft and I could never understand why. After I left for uni, she moved back in and tried to reconcile. He would not cooperate. Not consistently. Something must’ve happened to drive her here, though.”

“Why wouldn’t she look at me? Was she embarrassed?”

Sherlock gave a half smile.

“She’s blind. Been blind ever since I was five.”

“How?”

“My father pushed her in the heat of an argument after Christmas dinner. Acute damage to the occipital lobe.”

“Oh. And . . . and _that’s_ why you and Mycroft see _everything_ . . . You two were her guide dogs.”

He shrugged.

“I like to think that we’d still have fully developed our skills and senses had she never been blinded, but . . . yes.”

“And Mycroft said she _hasn’t_ got cancer, but--”

“Her hair.” Sherlock bristled. “I don’t know. She always had beautiful hair; she would never have cut it off, let alone shave her head.”

There was a muffled scream from his bedroom and we ran in. I realized we had both drawn our pistols, and I was glad she was blind – that would have scared anyone. Mrs. Holmes was sitting up, panting and sweating. The room was clear. Sherlock nearly threw his gun towards me and knelt by the bed.

“It’s okay, Mum.” He took her hand and ran his thumb over the back of her palm. “It was just a nightmare. You’re safe. I promise.”

She nodded and looked up at me, like she was trying to decide whether or not I was there. I didn’t say anything and started to leave.

“John,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Could you bring your face here? I hate not looking people in the eye.” I squatted beside Sherlock and she smiled. “You’d better say something, because I’d rather not slap you by mistake.”

“Hello Mrs. Ariadne.”

Her free hand touched by cheek gently and then ran the outline of my face. Her fingers traced my eyebrows, sockets, nose, and mouth before she withdrew them and nodded.

“Doctor . . . John . . . Watson.”

“Mum . . . what happened?”

She stiffened and her nostrils flared.

“He killed Meggie.”

“Oh my God who’s Meggie?” I asked.

“The dog,” Sherlock said. “But what about your hair?”

She scoffed.

“He shaved it off.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“I assume somebody told him arsenic poisoning can be traced through one’s hair.”

Sherlock stood angrily.

“He was _poisoning_ you?”

She nodded.

“I expected it. Divorce would ruin him financially, and he clearly doesn’t want to reconcile.” She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “I had thought he’d have been clever enough to _not_ use bloody _arsenic_ , though.”

Sherlock nodded, but I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“What, had you hoped he’d use something else?”

“Of course; only an idiot would use arsenic. It’s terribly common, the symptoms of poisoning are obvious enough, and it can be found in the hair and fingernails. I had given him enough credit to use succinyl choline or an injection of distilled water or something.”

“So, you stayed while he was poisoning you – even though you knew he was poisoning you – but he kills the dog and you leave?”

“He snapped her neck, John. She was the only companion I had. She was all that kept me sane.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back – I suspect – for Sherlock’s sake. No boy does well with a sobbing mummy. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

“Did he hurt you at all?”

She hesitated.

“Not anymore than he had before.”

He hugged her and she started to cry.

In all fairness, I think he handled it well: he said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted this for either of you. That’s why . . . that’s why I worried about Redbeard.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson about the flat next door.”

She grinned and wiped away her tears with the heel of her palm. She shifted and pulled a cheque book out of her back pocket. _Richard W. P. Holmes, Esq._ was engraved on the black leather.

“Please do.”

*****

March 14, 2013

I visited frequently, but the day I brought Mary to meet Mrs. Holmes was a day I won’t forget.

Sherlock and his mother were standing side by side, both playing the violin. Mary and I came in and sat down, just listening. It sounded vaguely familiar to me, but Mary started to cry.

“It’s _Swan Lake_ , John,” she had whispered. “They’re playing my favorite ballet.”

I looked at them, and the resemblance was much clearer now than it had been before. Sherlock had her cheekbones. Her eyes. Her mouth. Her curls. Her disdain for idiocy at the expense of her safety. I wondered if Mycroft must resemble Mr. Holmes. His hair color he inherited from his mother, and I’d learned that he also possessed her dry humor and sarcasm.

They finished, and Mary clapped.

“That was beautiful.”

Sherlock stood there blinking like a dolt, but Mrs. Holmes smiled and held out her arms.

“Welcome to the family,” she said. Mary wiped away some tears.

“I . . . I never really had a family.”

“Now you do.” Mrs. Holmes handed her violin and bow to Sherlock, then took Mary’s hands. “They call me Mummy.”


End file.
